


Games

by fansofcollisions



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Kink, Dubious Consent, F/F, Sexual Violence, everything you'd probably expect from these two characters going at it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 09:57:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fansofcollisions/pseuds/fansofcollisions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Meg looks at Ruby, she sees a bowl of clay. It's hard to resist sinking her hands in.</p><p>Meg 1.0/Ruby 1.0</p>
            </blockquote>





	Games

**Author's Note:**

> This is set mid-season 1. I believe it’s still canon-compliant despite that time placement.

“What’s this?”

“A loan. Azazel sends his regards.”

Meg stares, curious as to what brand of toy soldier her father’s sent her to wind. The vessel is blonde, trim, average height. A conventional beauty. Poorly dressed. Not much interesting about it, except a particular glint in the eyes that Meg quite relishes, one that promises acuity beyond her oafish brethren. She looks beneath the veil of human flesh, and sees there spitting energy and malice and craft. Promising. Dangerous.

Meg likes her already.

“You can go,” she says, flicking her fingers to dismiss the messenger. He leaves through the open warehouse door. It’s a cliché rendezvous spot, to say the least, but effective and discreet- two qualities this new recruit would do well to embody if she’s to survive the long slog ahead. “Name?” Meg asks, all military brusqueness and feigned boredom.

“I go by Ruby.” The response is crisp and even, betraying nothing. _The eyes tell a different story_. She’s an empty slate with thousands of chalk markings hidden just below the black. A fierce pride seeps through in jaunty posture, in crossed arms and cocked hip and flashing irises.

But she’s Meg’s piece to position on the board, for now at least. It won’t do for either of them to forget it.

“What’s the target?” Ruby asks, leaning against a metal railing and curling back, stretching her neck towards the ceiling. The baggy t-shirt rides up to reveal taught skin. Her confidence is refreshing. Meg gets a little tired of snivelling puppies at her feet, begging for orders, begging for clemency for their failures. She looks forward to savouring that confidence, right up until the moment she shatters it all away.

She sees here, for the first time, the promise of something she can build, all her own. Never has she met a finer canvas.

“You may have heard of them,” Meg drawls. “The Winchester boys.”

\--------------------------

She’s surveillance, to begin with. An aptitude for character and disappearing in crowds makes her perfect for gathering information. Meg sets her to tracking John Winchester’s whereabouts, keeping tabs on his activities, making sure none of the lower levels screw themselves over in their eagerness.

Her first few months come with the requisite number of fuck-ups. She’s overconfident, sure in her movements in a way that nearly gets her caught once or twice, according to Meg’s observers. (Even surveillance must have surveillance, after all.)

Still, Meg does not discipline her. She keeps her distance and chooses her orders carefully, observing only through others’ eyes. She watches as the cockiness bleeds into cunning, into a surety that makes her all but invaluable. Meg’s never had an invaluable component to her team before. It’s an odd idea.

Something almost like protectiveness awakens in what’s left of her battered soul, if only because she can’t afford to lose such a valuable operative. 

Meg lets the unfamiliar emotion pass from her mind.

\--------------------------

Ruby laying low is crucial so they don’t talk through blood lines. Instead Meg gets her status reports in person, sleazy hotel rooms being the most convenient location. She’s followed John for long enough to learn a thing or two from his tricks. The meetings are brief, a mere exchanging of information too vital to convey through other channels: those open to divination and physic interruption and whatever craft hunters or witches or oracles have cooked up to catch onto their game. A consolidated movement of demons towards a common goal, no matter how well disguised, is bound to attract some sort of attention. After all, John Winchester is fast on the move. He’s caught their scent.

Meg doesn’t like this twisted game of dog chasing tail, the circular motion of it all. She likes a quick strike and time to savour the victory; sneaking isn’t her style.

Ruby is dressed much the same as she was when Meg first met her. A blousy top, loose fitting jeans, practical sneakers. It’s an unflattering look, but one that doesn’t stand out from the crowd. She finds it a shame that Ruby disguises her vessel in its original look. No reason she couldn’t at least get a pair of jeans that touched her skin.

Then again, that’s not what she’s here for. Meg is the seductress, at least if the next few months go as planned.  Still. Meg’s all for practicality, but she likes it better accompanied with a modicum of style. Whether that’s fashion or fileting skin from the bone, every aspect of life has the potential for beauty.

_One day her Lord will rise, and the gate will be flung open, and no fear will twist within her, and she will have peace in the chaos, and beauty will be all around._

“Burkittsville, Indiana.”

“That’s where they’re headed?”

“Straight from John’s mouth.” Ruby leans against the wall in that self-satisfied way Meg can’t help but think becomes her. She’s shaping up nicely. The perfect little soldier, with the right mix of independent thought and subordination. Azazel is bound to be pleased when he takes his loan back at what Meg’s bred in her.

“Good work on the phone tap, by the way,” Meg compliments, impressed despite herself. She’s not even certain how Ruby managed to get close enough to swipe the cell, let alone how she got it back in his pocket without the elder Winchester’s noticing. Not a demon in a million could have pulled that off. And now they have the boys’ location. Everything’s falling into place.

Ruby smirks and nods her head. “That’s not all. John sent them on a case, some chain of missing couples, and Sam is _pissed_. Seems like baby Winchester wants to go find his daddy straight away.”

Meg bares her teeth. “Good. That’s perfect.”

“So, what’s our next move?” The inclusive pronoun rankles something under Meg’s skin, but she lets it pass. She breezes by Ruby to lay a map from her pocket on the table. Burkittsville. It’ll have to be a plane flight then. No car’s fast enough to cover the ground in time to get there before the Winchesters do and she needs some time for set-up besides.

“Get me a plane ticket to Indianapolis,” she orders, tracing the route with her finger.

“You mean _two_ plane tickets,” Ruby says. Impatience ripples through her voice.

“Oh, you’re not coming with me, sweetie,” Meg simpers, still looking down at the map. She’s not in the mood to deal with backtalk tonight, not with so much planning to do. There’s a time and a place for admiration of her work, but Ruby’s presence is nothing but a distraction tonight. “You’re going to get your pretty ass back to Sacramento and make sure none of the other bozos in my employ have managed to murder an orphan in your absence.” She wouldn’t mind back-up, but she’d much prefer to come back from this endeavour and not find John Winchester’s bloody corpse lying in wait for her.  Demons do like their killing.

This all has to be done the proper way, of course.

Meg can sense the hand’s intent before it’s even brushed her sleeve. The foolish thing’s anger radiates in the very pulse of the room and Meg grabs her wrist before Ruby manages to whirl her as intended. She flips her face down onto the stained coverlet, face pressed into the lilac fabric, pinning her arm behind her back. “Don’t try that again,” she hisses against the delicate skin behind Ruby’s ear. “I’m liable to bite next time.”

“Would you?” Ruby asks sweetly, though the tone is marred by a grimace.

Meg lets her cheek brush against golden hair just slightly- an imitation of a kiss, a tease, a consideration- before pulling away. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”  Meg’s voice is mocking, but a startled curiousity buzzes below.

It’s not that she’s unused to advances. Men drink her up like she’s the last water in miles. She knows full well what the right blend of sultry eyes and attitude and an attractive body can do- she’s learned all the tricks- but underlings don’t tend to make a pass. She can’t tell if the flirt is genuine or toying or meant to offend. After all, Ruby is an actress by profession. She knows the tricks too. Only Meg can’t figure out what script they’re playing at.

Ruby responds with a low moan that could mean anything. Meg lets her wrist trail against the exposed skin of her side, hoping for a visible result, but the body below her is still. Frustrated, she shoves Ruby hard into the mattress and pushes off her, striding to the other side of the room. “Go.”

Ruby slams the door on her way out, though she spares a moment for a wink in her direction, a look laced with fake coyness and spite. Two hours later, as Meg scours a thrift shop for clothes that say _approachable wayward runaway_ but still show enough skin to entice, her phone receives a text with a boarding number. It’s followed by an _xoxo_. She memorizes the number and deletes the text. No distractions. Not now. There are too many other things to think about. She’ll deal with this development later.

\--------------------------

The meetings resume, and Ruby is back to her haughty self, whatever alluring part she might have adopted having slipped below the surface role of dutiful subordinate once again. Meg for her part doesn’t press the issue, but watches her protégé with narrower eyes now, searching for clues to her intentions. She doesn’t like enigmas. They make bad investments in the long run, and she’s already invested too much in this link of the chain.

Ruby notices the eyes, of course. At any rate, she’s sure to cock her hip just so her jeans slide down her hip to the bone there, at least when she knows Meg is looking. Or maybe the clothes are just ill-fitting. Either way, she’s finding it harder and harder to believe any of it’s unintentional. Even harder still to not suck her bottom lip into her mouth when Ruby bends to tie a shoelace, all pin-up model, ass in the air glory that’s anything but subtle.

It occurs to Meg that it’s been a long time since she’s had a good fuck. Maybe it’s time to rectify the situation.  

\--------------------------

Meg supposes there might be easier means to communicate than making the trek back and forth to whatever hick southern dunghole John’s holed up in, but she likes it this way. Likes being able to see the gleam in those grey eyes as Ruby speaks of her success. Likes the spatters of blood on her protégé’s collar that indicate a job well done. Likes the purse of her lips and the wicked half-smile and the curve of her body ( _“show me”_ ) as the dagger slices the throat of the hotel concierge that’s been reluctant to lend aid to their little reconnaissance mission.

The Winchesters are in the wind again. Her father isn’t pleased, and tonight Meg is tetchy and itching for a real fight. Her hands clamp by her sides as she gazes on the bloody remnants of their latest kill draining out onto the warehouse floor with envy, a taste for sanguine hot in her mouth. Too long since she’s fucked, too long since she’s torn someone’s living matter apart. Too long of this skulking around, too long in inaction.

“Nice form,” she says through clenched teeth. She’s a lioness burning with energy, poised to strike.

“What can I say?” Ruby says as she wipes the blade on a cloth from her pocket. “It’s my weapon of choice.” She twirls it between her fingers. “This one’s duller than I’d like. I know places you can get one’s that’ll take a boar’s head clean off, for a price.” She shrugs and turns to Meg, rolling her eyes. “Who knew our boss was such cheap shit?” _There._

The spring releases, and Meg slaps her across the mouth.

Ruby staggers, taken off guard. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but the hook to her jaw knocks the words right out of her. She’s up against the wall with an arm against her windpipe before the clock can tick another second away.

_Meg is not actually Azazel’s daughter, not biologically. But with all memory of her earthly father seared away by millennia of fire and knives and all other manner of pain, he’s as much of a father as she could ever wish for. The last time a hell gate was opened a hundred years back, he was the one who grabbed her by the hair and dragged her from the flames into the light. He gave her a purpose, and there’s no greater gift after so many years of nothing but meaningless suffering. He’s the voice in the desert, preparing the way, calling children to gather for the coming dawn. Love is not something Meg has in spades, so where its dole is found, its strength is a fury unmatched by every torment she ever suffered in Hell’s grasp._

_For all her self-serving ways, it cannot be claimed she does not fiercely, terribly love._

 “You have something to say?” Meg sneers.

Ruby spits blood at her face. Meg flicks her tongue, tastes the warm copper on her lip. Even with her face rapidly purpling, Ruby manages to maintain that smug affectation. It’s no longer endearing, it’s no longer refreshing. It just _pisses her off_. She revels in the rage, letting it seep down into her bones.

“You want another, _maggot_?” Meg hisses. Ruby only smirks and Meg drives her knee into her stomach. Ruby doubles over but she’s slammed back into the concrete before she can catch her breath. “Or are you ready to apologize?”

“Do-don’t as a general rule,” Ruby heaves. Meg slaps her again. Red peppers the floor by her feet.

She’s had enough playing the sweetheart runaway for Sam, she’s fucking up to _here_ with being the good girl, and what she really needs is some good old fashioned release. She decides there are entirely too many beautiful bones in Ruby’s body to resist breaking a few. Sure, she still needs her, but she’ll heal soon enough. There’s one benefit to demonic minions: indestructible punching bags at your beck and call.

Meg raises her hand for another blow, but before it can land she finds herself on her back on the cold concrete floor, the razor line of a blade against her rising chest. _Here we go_.

“I could slit your throat right here and now.” Ruby’s got her pinned down well, knees locked into hips and both hands occupied to their fullest. Her stability’s off though. One quick twist and she’d be knocking a tooth out on the way down. Without her typical demonic strength advantage, she’s vulnerable.

Something about the show of power tickles Meg however, the posturing adorable in its naivety. So she lets her have her fun, content to see how it all plays out.  “That old thing won’t do shit against someone like me,” she scoffs, trying to contain her grin.

“No. _This_ won’t,” says Ruby. “But you’d better watch your back all the same.”

“I think you’re forgetting what the hierarchy is meant to be here.”

“No,” she says. “I’m really not.” Meg laughs, high and dangerous and hungry for everything that’s about to come.

“Killing you would be the equivalent effort of stomping a ladybug under my shoe.”

“Yeah. You say that, don’t you?” Ruby chuckles, leaning forward. “But here I am. Still alive, if that’s the word for it. And I’m still better than you. Azazel’s got a soft spot for you, sure, but we both know sentimentality can’t outweigh practicality for long, can it? You let the Winchesters slip away. Soon enough there’ll be a new sheriff in town, and no one will stick around to lick your boots.”

Oh, there’s that fire. There’s that reckless arrogance, that stupidity she’d almost deign to call brave. Meg wants to tear it right out of her chest. She wants to rip into this creature and understand what makes it move, to feel its vigour pour through her fingertips as she drags them through the sinewy parcelling and digs straight to the gems below. It’s been too long for everything, and Meg is done with waiting.

She sweeps Ruby’s leg out, effortless as water, and down she goes, the look on her face exactly the mix of surprise and ferocity that Meg had been hoping for. She’s underneath now, clawing at Meg’s shirt, ripping at her hair, Meg smiling all the while as she presses her hand against Ruby’s stomach. She twists her fingers through the fabric, savouring the destruction as it rips apart in her grasp. “I’ve always hated the way you dress,” she spits gleefully as she flings the remnants of the blouse out of sight. “You’re so much better like this,” she murmurs, and drags her nails down exposed skin. Ruby howls and thrashes as the blood pools beneath Meg’s fingertips. “I can make you _better_. Better than what you are.”

The heat behind Meg’s eyes intensifies as she feels their slide to oily black. Her hands don’t know where to go next, what to tear, what to destroy, what to rend and twist and refashion until it suits her design. She moves with her mouth instead, plunging down to devour Ruby’s sounds, sinking her tongue low and hot, loving the way hands grip at her shoulders, pushing and pulling in turn like some broken factory machine. The thrashing only serves as enticement as she twists and pulls and feels the body below her strive to match the senseless barrage of her movement.  

Ruby keens and thrusts her hips upwards, and Meg grins against bloody, tattered lips as she feels the surrender click in the body beneath her. She releases her grip and Ruby sinks down into the concrete, naked skin trembling and eyes gleaming.

“Never forget,” says Meg as she trails a hand down Ruby’s midriff and against her jeans, popping the button with practiced ease and slipping her hand inside to stroke roughly at satin and lace, “I run this show. So you can go off half-cocked,” she thrusts a finger deep into wet heat and shoves Ruby back down as she bucks up, moaning, “but it’s going to get you fucked, every single time.” She lines up a second finger, circling her as she bites down on Ruby’s clavicle, leaving teeth-shaped scratches and trails of red across pale skin. She plunges the two, plus another, in without warning and Ruby cries out, the sound echoing against the barren walls.

Golden hair is matted to the ground with sweat and grime and trails of bloody saliva, and Meg wants to rip it from her skull, grab ahold of a tress and yank until the roots pull free, feel the catch and release of the follicles as they’re torn from her scalp. She makes do by grabbing a handful above her forehead and dragging it back, till her neck is long and straining.

Ruby shudders, falling back as Meg rocks against her, hands gripping tight to Meg’s thighs. He nails dig in through the fabric, pressing thin white lines that Meg can barely feel through her heat. She slaps Ruby again with her free hand and relishes the way the blood vessels burst below her skin and spread to a deep reddish flush.

She grinds her palm against Ruby’s wetness as she thrusts her fingers in, setting an ever erratic pace that has them both panting. The body below her tenses. Just as it begins to seize in the beginnings of climax Meg lowers herself fully and bites as hard as her vessel will allow into her shoulder, drawing copper and screams from the girl below her.

In that moment she feels the fire as Ruby writhes and whimpers. It pulses through her, draining her of all excess energy and leaving a blissed-out calm in its wake, a serenity she’s been longing for. She stands on stronger legs.

Ruby is a mess. She lies, glassy eyed and still, jeans halfway down her hips and bra pulled askew across her unmarred breasts. Her breasts are nearly the only part of her body that’s unmarked. There are wounds covering her skin Meg doesn’t remember inflicting, though she supposes with satisfaction that she must have been the source.

“You gotten what you wanted?” Meg says, nudging Ruby’s calf with the toe of her boot. No response. “Good. Hopefully we won’t be forgetting our places again anytime soon.” She turns away.

In the dark, Meg doesn’t see the girl’s lips twist into a smirk.

\---------------------------

And so it goes. Ruby teases and taunts and flaunts and Meg fucks her when the mood arises, and then the game begins anew. It all falls into a pattern. Report, snark, blood, fuck, smile, spit, rinse, repeat. Again. Again. It would become dull if Meg weren’t so creative. She always manages to find new ways to break the petite body beneath her. Hands give way to knives, to lead pipes, to rope and oil and on one particularly memorable occasion, the contents of an abandoned music shop.

_Oh, she knows a hundred and one uses for steel strings, and the song she plays from Ruby’s lips is unparalleled._

And each time, the submission is harder earned, the fight is fiercer. Ruby slips out of Meg’s grasp only to be slammed down again, pulls a concealed knife, breaks the tightest bonds, manages a roundhouse kick even Meg didn’t see coming. The end result is always the same, of course. A battered, fucked-out body lying bloody on concrete, or carpet, or some dirty motel bed. But each time, Ruby is stronger.

It becomes one more lesson, one more training exercise. IMeg gets a little something extra out of it, but it only means she’s a talented multi-tasker.

She finds herself counting the days till their next rendezvous, desperate for the adrenaline punch and the slickness of blood on her hands. She almost misses the girl when she’s not around. She only admits the former to herself.

 ------------------------

It takes Meg two days to realize her favourite grey-green leather jacket is missing, stolen from her knapsack. It takes her three more days and a messy interrogation of one of the grunts (resulting in an unfortunate loss of another favourite shirt due to excess bodily fluids) to discover where it’s gone.

The next time Ruby walks through the door, smug and proudly arraigned in Meg’s finest she throws her into a wall so hard she can hear the vessel’s shoulder crack from the impact. A knee to the gut sends Ruby coughing to the floor and a swift strike to the back of the neck levels her. She’s got boot shaped bruises on her stomach and two broken ribs and a crooked nose by the time Meg is finished.

She lets her keep the jacket though. It makes her chest look fantastic.

The next time it’s a patterned t-shirt. Meg doesn’t even tear it off her. A pair of boots, gone. Ruby’s legs are stunning spindles of energy on black spikes. Her hair is different, soft waves straightened to a severe line against the jaw.

Meg sees her fashioned in her own image and the heat returns, deep inside her gut and burning low. A thought occurs to her and will not leave her be. It repeats as often as they fuck, as often as Ruby saunters into her presence, as often as breathing.

 _Mine_.

\--------------------------

Meg waits for a sign that her work is done, that Ruby is fully formed, functional, perfection in shattered glass. She gets it the first time Ruby spins her round and does some tearing of her own. Meg’s jacket, shirt, jeans, all shredded under her fingertips. _And what talented fingertips she has._

When Ruby is finished, both bodies spent and aching, Meg throws her head back and laughs. She laughs till tears leak from her vessel’s eyes, she laughs till she thinks she’ll burst apart at the seams. Every inch of her vibrates with it. Then she sits forward and kisses Ruby. It’s slow, gentle. Tender in a way her nature does not allow. _Perhaps Ruby’s done some shaping too._  

She sinks deep into Ruby’s mouth and wonders if this is what being in love feels like. She can’t remember how to be. Something deep inside her yearns towards the surface.

She presses forward and kisses her again, and Ruby bites Meg’s lip with no intention to hurt or to harm, and Meg almost remembers.

\--------------------------

It was only a loan, after all. Somewhere along the way Meg forgot that simple fact.

And after a time, Azazel comes to collect.

She can feel his presence in the abandoned hotel before he appears. She opens the door to Room 202, their designated meeting spot for tonight, and finds Ruby and her father sitting opposite one another across the little table, twin smiles playing on both their lips.

 “You’re late,” says Azazel sharply, not taking his eyes off Ruby’s unreadable face. Whatever gladness might have arisen at his appearance dies within Meg’s chest. He’s not here to see her. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve found what I wanted.” He leans forward to stroke a piece of blonde hair behind Ruby’s ear. Ruby’s expression doesn’t change.

He stands. “Please, have a seat.” Meg accepts the courtesy for what it is: a power play. Freedom to pace and tower over his lessers. She sits, and wonders if Azazel’s light will dim when the Morningstar rises. Who will kneel then? Who will be raised up?

“I brought this girl to you, green as a summer pasture, and now _look at her_ ,” he croons. He faces Meg but his hand rests on Ruby’s shoulder. “ _Perfect_. Absolutely perfect. I couldn’t be more pleased.” Meg swells with pride, lavishing in the attention, though her face remains stoic. “Wonderful, wonderful. And _you_ ,” he says, squeezing Ruby’s shoulder, “my gem, my investment, have you done what I asked?” She glances down at his hand, clenched in the material covering her shoulder, then up at his eyes, smirking.

She’s wearing Meg’s jacket.

“I told you to learn from her.” He draws a finger down the hemline of the leather. “And it looks like you _learned_ her well.” Ruby raises her eyes to meet Meg’s. Their gaze is mocking.

“Just as I promised.”

“Just as you promised.”

Meg’s heart stops.

Ruby turns her head up to leer at Azazel, face contorted into the imitation of deference as she simpers, “yes, yes” and “anything for you, sir” and “nothing more than what you asked of me” and “no, sir, she wasn’t difficult at all”. And Meg could scream. She wants to tear the words from her mouth and force the truth in its place. She was Meg’s creation. Nothing she’s done has been without Meg’s direction. Every thought is hers, every action, every kiss and every back alley fuck. Ruby is _hers_.

“And now,” Azazel says, leaning over Ruby’s shoulder. “I promised you a reward, didn’t I?” Ruby nods, smiling softly. Meg stares, silent, wide-eyed.

“You’re chosen,” he says, drawing her chin forward. “I’m always on the lookout for that… _special_ someone. And sister, you’ve got it. You’re gonna be a big star. It’s all right,” he taps her skull with a finger, “ _there_. The potential. And now you’ve got the experience as well, a hard-fought conquest under your belt? Oh, she’s going to love you.”

“Yes?” Ruby breathes, rising from the chair.

“Yes. It’s all arranged. All I need you to do is one more thing for me. A simple, little thing.”

“Anything.” Azazel takes her hand and leads her to the bed. Bile rises in Meg’s throat as she watches. Her mouth won’t open.

It’s an old hotel, still equipped with four posted beds and thick velvet curtains and plush mattresses laden with dust. Eagerly, Ruby crawls backward into the centre of this room’s main attraction, face shadowed by the hangings above her. She kneels in the dirt, anticipating her command _. Like a dog,_ Meg thinks bitterly. _Just like every other one. Worthless, grovelling dogs. She was never any different._

She doesn’t want to wonder what that makes her.

“All you have to do is _wait_.” Ruby blinks, surprise flitting across her face.

“How long?” she asks.

“Oh, it won’t be long.” Azazel returns to the table and pulls a cassette player from his pocket. He places it on the chestnut wood. “Not long at all.”

“What’s this?” Meg asks. She keeps her voice even, cold. Emotionless. She doesn’t look in Ruby’s direction.

“This? Just a little something I picked up from a hunter buddy of mine, right before he got real well acquainted with the inner tracts of his intestines.”

And suddenly, Meg knows. She knows what’s about to happen and despite every artery in her body pulsing in anger for the girl still kneeling on the bed, still so fucking stupid to think that her reward will be sweet, she feels the urge to rip the fabric from above the bed, destroy the velvet she sees now if she squints hard enough is laced with pale grey strokes: a familiar curve and crossed lines and small pagan symbols.

Ruby moves forward towards the edge of the bed, trying to get a better look at the device on the table. Her progress halts abruptly and her expression changes from one of curiousity, to confusion, to righteous anger.

“What the hell is going on?” she spits, pressing her hands against the invisible barrier. She looks above her and comprehension dawns. Azazel responds by pressing a button on the tape deck. The machine crackles to life.

 _‘This is the sixth exorcism I’ve collected. Jason Madson nearly died getting the translation to me. Guess they must be on our trail. I hope someday it’ll save your life, Nathan._ ’ He presses pause.

“Have we caught up yet?”

Ruby bangs her fist against the barrier. Azazel only smiles serenely at her increasingly desperate attempts to push her way through centuries old dark magic, testing every side of the circle with no success. Her motions become frantic, panicked.

“It will all be explained,” he coos as Ruby turns on the bed and pants and searches for weaknesses that won’t appear. “Don’t be afraid, there’s a higher purpose in store for you, darling. When you arrive, there’ll be someone waiting there to greet you. She’s always longed for a doll of her own…”

“Don’t do this to me!” she shrieks, and for a moment her grey eyes flash with something other than pride. If Meg didn’t know better, she’d think it was vulnerability. She’d almost swear it was fear.

“Come, daughter,” Azazel says, gesturing to Meg. She stands, disgusted by the entire display. He presses play. The cassette crackles in anticipation.

“Please! Please, help me!” Ruby cries, reaching her hand out in Meg’s direction. She ignores her pleas. A few preliminary words of Latin are uttered and Ruby screams, a wounded, distraught sound. Azazel walks out the door and vanishes, his work done. Meg only turns back to look once the echo of the cry has died away.

Ruby’s head hangs low. She stares at her futile hands. Every ounce of fight is gone and for a moment, only a moment, Meg feels pity burst through her anger and shame.

But then Ruby’s head lifts. The purse of her lips bleeds into something more sultry, though there’s a deadness in the eyes that lends an uncanny quality to the expression. She quirks a little smile in Meg’s direction. Its promise cuts through the air, an assurance of violence to come. And Meg, despite herself, shivers.

 “Put this on ice for me while I’m away,” Ruby says, trailing a finger down between the cleft of her breasts. “I’ll want it when I get back.”

She’d been so certain she’d been positioning a pawn on the chess board. She knows better now.

Meg nods, swallowing, then turns to flee the room.

It’s been clear from the start, if only she wasn’t too blind to see it. Her charge was never a lowly pawn, to be molded and prodded at will. There, in a ruined hotel room, Meg sees her true shape for the first time. Never a dog, never a canvas, never a pawn.

Kneeling in shabby finery is the queen’s knight. May heaven shield those ivory pieces who dare cross her path.


End file.
